Voldemort: Regrets and Nostalgia
by Elbereth Githoniel
Summary: Voldemort finds himself in limbo, after his death. What are his thoughts on life?


Voldemort:

_Harry Potter..._ The name reverberated through the skull of the dark lord as he brooded. _Harry Potter..._

He was sitting in a place that looked vaguely like King's Cross station, except cleaner, shinier, and blurrier. A large billboard with the display of the arrival times shimmered in the distance. The "time until arrival" box, infuriatingly simply contained the infinity symbol. Glancing down at his body, he realized with a start he was wearing flowing white robes. He searched madly for his wand, but to no avail.

He paced backward and forward. The waiting and the whiteness and the nothingness glared at him like the light that had claimed his life... or lives. He tried running as far as he could in one direction, but the arrival and departure sign never seemed to get closer or farther away. He bellowed with rage.

"I AM THE DARK LORD," he bellowed. "YIELD TO MY POWER!"

King's cross station did not reply.

Exasperated, the dark lord sat on the floor of the station. He was hit with a sudden feeling of discomfort. He had not sat on a floor in many years. The floor was a place for lesser beings, less powerful wizards. The last time he had sat on the floor... he squeezed his eyes shut to attempt to prevent the memory from taking hold of him, but to no avail. The memory rushed at him as clearly as if in a pensive.

"What have you got there Tom?" asked professor Slughorn, glancing down at a pale boy.

Tom often sat at on the floor in this nook of the library, close to the restricted section, but not close enough to be suspected of anything. He was reading a particularly exciting book on Inferni and the charms with which to bewitch them. The book was not from the library, not even Flourish and Blotts, but rather from a German wizard who had seemed desperate to part with it. Well, at least after he had been imperiused.

Uttering a quick charm under his breath, the cover of the book became identical with Slughorn's own latest composition, containing his various essays of famous witches and wizards that he had met.

"Here, Professor," smiled Tom. "I am reading your work."

Slughorn sputtered with appreciation, and he waved his hand in a futile attempt at modesty. Thoroughly mollified, Slughorn turned and left the library, Madam Pince chastising him for his muddy shoes on the library floor.

Voldemort snapped back to the present. That was the last instance he had ever tried to please a soul at Hogwarts. Never again would he show a hint of admiration, jealousy or appeasement. From then on, it was up to other wizards to appease him.

Picking himself up off of the floor and straightening his robes, he smiled slightly. He was a Lord. He had many followers and admirers. He had fixed all of life's problems. Except for one. He had been unable to solve death. His mind wandered to his horcruxes. He had chosen objects worthy of his soul. His soul, too powerful to be contained in mere household objects was treated with the grandeur it deserved. The HE deserved. The diary had been his first experiment. It had been his only friend...

NO! He was the dark lord! He did not need company, companionship, friends, parents, lovers...

The diary had almost served its purpose. It had almost led to the death of Harry, the purge of mudbloods from the school that he so loved, that he wished to remain pure. But Potter had taken his triumph, killed his monster, and thwarted him. But the ring, the ring and the locket were certainly worthy. The ring, a Peverell family heirloom, had taken his soul reluctantly, but had taken it nonetheless. He shook his head. Why had he left the ring at the house of his grandfather. Anger welled inside him. His mother... a squib! Why would he want to remind himself of that place. It was too personal. A place where Dumbledore penetrated easily.

Ah, but the locket! A worthy prize for the heir of slytherin. He had hidden it well, using the foulest of magics to keep it hidden. Was there more he could have done? Was there a way to hide it more completely? Did he really need to make it so he could gain entry to it? He shrieked with rage and loss.

The cup, Hufflepuff's cup, had been a foolish mistake. Surely he, the dark lord, could break into Gringotts. So also, could not Harry Potter, the small lucky boy, reach the vault? It had been the folly of an eleven year old boy, a blind trust in a fantasy, that had led him to such foolishness. Goblins were scum, so easily sucumbing to the superior will of wizards. The cup was certainly a mistake.

The diadem, the diadem was hidden in the securest place in the wizarding world. The dark lord alone knew of the secret room. It bent to his will, for he had mastered it. How had the Potter boy known of the room? Others could not enter it! He did not understand. It was as if an old friend had betrayed him. Hogwarts, the only place he felt he ever belonged, had betrayed him.

The snake was simply too much to bear. The Longbottom blood-traitor had killed the last shreds of his soul, with something as crude and non-magical as a sword. Nagini had served him well, but perished foolishly in the end. Should he have placed the seventh part of his soul elsewhere, perhaps in another inanimate object.

Who had known of the horcruxes. How could the Potter boy and his mudblood and blood-traitor friends learned of the secrets? How, when he had told no one, not a soul. No one knew of his dark horcruxes, so how had the boy known to hunt them? How had the boy known what they were?

His thoughts fell suddenly to another conversation he had had with Slughorn. The conversation of multiple horcruxes. SLUGHORN! The name echoed like a roar through his brain. He should have killed the bumbling fool before it had reached this point. Slughorn! Slughorn was the answer to his death! Slughorn must have been the one guiding Harry, the one that had prevented him from dying during the killing curse in the forbidden forest, the one... the one...

A dazzling light formed in front of the dark lord, knocking him backward. A pheonix shone from in front of him. It flashed with a blue light, and when the smoke cleared, a frail, bearded wizard stood in front of him, half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his crooked nose. Voldemort scrambled backward. "_You._"

"Hello Tom," smiled Dumbledore pleasantly. "It was not Slughorn that taught Harry of your Horcruxes, Tom." Dumbledore paused, flicking his wand from his sleeve and examining it. Voldemort did not recognise it. It was shorter and darker in color than the Elder wand. It must have been the old Professor's before he dueled Grindelwald for it.

"It was you!" yelled Voldemort, leaping to his feet. He charged toward Dumbledore, but simply ran straight through him, as if he were a ghost. He turned to Dumbledore, about to shout, but stopped short. A single tear trickled down his face. His eyes swam with tears.

"Why did you do it, Tom?" he asked. "All those people, the boy... the boy..."

Voldemort staggered backward. "No... no... DON'T CALL ME TOM!"

"I loved you Tom," replied Dumbledore, his face now wet.

"I...I..." but the dark lord was at a loss for words.

"You know why Harry didn't die when you tried to kill him, Tom?" Voldemort backed away. "Harry did not die, because at that moment when you were destroyed after killing his mother, part of your soul went into him. By willingly sacrificing himself, the boy led you to destroy your own horcrux."

Voldemort's face was wet with tears. "No...NO!"

"You could have had everything Tom," smiled Dumbledore sadly. "You could have been loved." And with that, he vanished, leaving Tom alone once more at King's Cross.

Tom thought back. What if his family had lived? What if he had stayed with Dumbledore, what if he wasn't possessed with power. What if... what if...


End file.
